


Got Me Falling Right Back

by andwhatyousaid



Series: Post-Hiatus Direction [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Hiatus, dunkirk film premiere, when you see the ex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/pseuds/andwhatyousaid
Summary: Has-been Liam Payne attends famous-as-ever Harry Styles' L.A. premiere of Dunkirk. He said he would before they broke up.





	Got Me Falling Right Back

**Author's Note:**

> I know in actuality, Harry Styles wore nothing close to what I described him in for his L.A. premiere, but also in actuality, none of this really happened either, 100% disclaimer, etc. (Except that I totally predicted Liam shaving all his hair off again.) Anyway, I wrote this a long time ago, and re-discovered it while cleaning out my google docs. I am at a 'WINE NOT' stage in my life, so here you are. For otherwise unexplained context, Liam has been out of the celebrity game since One Direction split in this. For more context: the title comes from "Say It" (Feat Tove Lo) by Flume, a song that will explain my thesis here.
> 
> Gracious, heartfelt thanks to my guardian angel [Becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfreely) for having beta-read this for me many moons ago. Look, I finally posted it!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading.

Liam's avoiding packing up his house, loafing around shirtless, in his nicest pair of sweats —the ones that hang low but tight across his hips and scrunch at his ankles and have the string ties still in, hanging evenly —though he’s bothered by the heat; it makes the back of his neck trickle sweat and and the bottom of his feet stick to his hardwood floors, but he keeps moving through the house, quickly, as if he can escape it, as if it isn’t on his heels, as if he won't have to strip out of his sweats and be left bare. It hasn't let him escape once since he first came to L.A.

Standing barefoot in his foyer, half of it looming with closed and stacked boxes, shadowing the floor from the afternoon sun filtering in —the sharp relief of not having to return to L.A. afterwards —after all this —strikes him, a punch to the sternum, a new breath.

After a while, he can still avoid packing, but the clock reminds him that he can no longer avoid the premiere tonight.

He begins his ritual early: a long and thorough shower, though he hardly has any hair left to wash, scrubbing uselessly with his nails at his scalp, suds smelling like freshly cut coconut as they slip down the back of his neck; shaving the hair down his chest and curling at the insides of his thighs and beneath his soft cock, his balls, but not the half-beard on his jaw and around his mouth except to trim it evenly; moisturizing naked in his bathroom in the residue of steam; brushing his teeth until he gags over the sink, spitting up minty foam, his eyes watering.

Once he’s clean and dry, he lays his suit out on his bed. It camouflages into the duvet, the charcoal gray trousers, the off-white shirt, the muted belt that will let him blend-in enough tonight amongst the red-carpet sea of glimmering, bejeweled bodies, light-bulbs flashing and popping like crashing waves.

He runs his fingers over his button-down shirt, touches the seam —so soft it could disappear into the sheets —and tries to recall the last time he dressed for the carpet: the stifling press of his clothes; the dead, ticking silence in the car for those few heart-pounding moments before the door swings open and the noise comes flooding in. But he finds he can’t recover the sound, can’t place the memory —it slides away, distant, like looking at an aged photograph or watching a film from the projector’s room, the reel mislabeled.

There’s a beep from his phone, and it startles him into motion: he drops the seam of his shirt, moves to his bedside table to find his phone and thumb it awake.

It’s Niall: “you still going?”

Liam bites his lip, hesitating. He isn’t dressed yet, but —“i promised i would,” he types.

By the time Liam’s gotten his trousers buttoned and zipped, though still shirtless and barefoot on the plush rug he’ll have to pay someone to roll up sometime before the end of the week, his phone beeps again with Niall’s reply: a series of thumbs-ups, party streamers, and the sunglasses emoji. “Good luck,” Niall’s texted. “Wish I could be there too.”

Liam’s mouth twists, wistful, as he touches the emojis with his thumb like he can absorb them into his body. He wishes Niall could be there, too, and tells him so, but pauses, hesitating again, the cursor blinking at him; he backspaces “wish i wasnt going alone” until it’s gone.

He finishes dressing in the still, quiet room; the only noise comes from the fan humming above his head, a low-grade buzzing, and his fingers moving swiftly: fastening the buttons of his shirt, pulling and sliding the fabric of his tie through his collar, running his belt through his trousers, quick and unsentimental.

Before Liam opens his front door to step out —onto his front steps laid to overlook the curving, lengthy driveway and into the car that’s idling for him —he breathes deeply, slowly, filling his belly, feeling the sharp ache in his hands, holding it until it’s nearly unbearable, and then breathes out, quickly, like blowing out a candle.

 

+

 

There is no one else in the car except for the driver and the hum of the AC and the radio turned down, switching in and out of hearing range, a mumbling that never comes into focus or breeds any words.

The sun flashes hot and bright through the window, gets right in his eyes no matter which way he turns his head, so he looks down instead at his lap and his dress shoes, lined up shiny and neat against the blank carpet floor, and scrolls through his phone —first Instagram, pulling up the selfie he took earlier in his driveway and the still-hot sun with his Wayfarer shades on, palm trees rising like skyscrapers in the background. He selects the filter tediously; the sun has washed out the photo and it’s overly bright, a burn mark, but he posts it anyway with the caption: _Three guesses where I’m headed @harrystyles._

He thumbs through his feed, and then his messages, but he reaches the bottom of his list and Harry’s message thread is there. Liam pauses for so long, staring at it — the disjointed exchange, the short “you up?” followed days later by a random link to an article about a line of organic hair-care products that Liam never quite replied to, except to send a Yelp page of a local brunch place he liked and Harry had said thanks, but he hadn’t —that Liam doesn’t have time to send any other texts before the car is rolling to a stop, and he looks up.

Through the window, he can see the hustle, the mass of paparazzi and tabloid news stations lining the block and the tail end of the carpet, the overhead lights, the hazy glamorous bodies waiting for their turn to take the walk. They’re only a few cars away, so Liam puts his phone away, tucks it into his inside blazer pocket, and waits for the lurching stop, for the door to open, watching.

 

+

 

Once Liam’s outside of the car, lingering by the queue, he spots Harry in the middle of the carpet, center stage, looking so much like the last time Liam saw him do this, like a picture lifted from his memory and brought into real-life focus, that Liam feels the floor move out from under him, rolling as if the carpet’s going to snap up and he’ll fall right off, his stomach turning and turning. Harry’s relaxed posture, his easy and crooked half-smile, his short hair, and his clean-shaven face are as handsome as though he’s coming right out of the pages of a magazine; right out of the tabloids in the grocery stores that Liam passes his eyes over, waiting to pay; right out of Liam’s memory. But back then, he had been over on Harry’s left, and there was someone between them, so Liam couldn’t see as much of Harry’s face, just the obscured side of it as though Harry was in a patch of shade from the hot lights, and it made Harry’s features grow dark and murky, unclear.

Now, in the distinct, overbright lighting, there is no mistaking Harry; he always does sink into it like warm water. Liam doesn’t know why he expected this time might be any different. 

 

+

 

Liam strays off the carpet, slides through personal assistants and security until he’s too far back to be caught by the cameras on the front-lines.

Before he can run into anyone or the film begins, he goes to have a cigarette in a sparse niche behind the theatre —a dead-end corridor that has discarded sound equipment, plastic sheets covering an enormous pair of speakers that are as big as a car.

It's quiet enough back here that when Liam lights up, inhales, he pretends for a moment that he's on his balcony instead, looking out at the vast spread of L.A. rising and falling in the distance, its winding roads and gleaming lights, seductive for how it covers up the bumps and bruises, for how he can't see the bumper-to-bumper brake-lights on the 405 and overcrowded beaches and the mass of anonymous pedestrians hiding their faces with sunglasses as if they’re all undercover famous, never pausing to speak to one another longer than it takes to load a parking meter with money. He does love it when the sun sets, though, and the sky gets broken-up, bursting pink and seared orange, and he can see the whole of L.A. for a moment, bared—

—“Hey, you,” says Harry.

Liam knows it instantly even though he isn't looking. He couldn’t forget that drawl, the low hum of Harry's voice, as if reluctant to come out from his chest; Liam has spent too long late at night with his cold cell-phone pressed flat to the side of his sweaty face, trying to recreate how it feels in person, his hand fisted around his—

He swallows, then turns and pulls his cigarette free from his mouth in one smooth movement, half-embarrassed to be caught with it; he’d quit for a while, but old habits die hard. “Harry,” he says finally, his breath disappearing into smoke and thinning out into the space between them. “I'd been looking for you.”

Though, if that had been true, Liam might’ve not known what to look for. He hasn’t seen Harry’s cut hair in person, and it’s different this close up, groomed carefully away from his face yet unruly still; makes his eyes stand out, bright and shocking; his ears naked, his jaw sharp and cutting; and his shirt is buttoned to his throat like it hardly ever is, closing him in; his whole suit is loud and floral but tailored to the detail right down to his sunglasses folded and tucked cleanly into his suit jacket’s front pocket. For a moment, he’s unrecognizable. He’s Harry Styles from the carpet, but he isn’t Harry, Liam’s mate, who at one time lived with Liam for five years on and off across the entire world.

“Funny,” says Harry, standing in the mouth of the corridor, staring at Liam. “I'd been looking for you, too.” Finally, Harry melts into a full smile, a real one, his dimples blooming to life, his eyes going soft, and Liam smiles back, a whole smile, finding him again.

Liam drops his cigarette to the ground, crushes it with his heel as he steps forward to accept the arms Harry's holding open for him, outstretched.

Harry’s wearing a cologne that Liam doesn't know but his hair smells the same as it always has, and his arms around Liam are all too familiar, holding him steady as they hug, rubbing his huge palm up and down Liam's back as if to soothe him, languid and unrushed.  

Liam closes his eyes, sinking into it like he had the first inhale of his cigarette, letting himself feel Harry’s body against his, the meat of him: Harry’s chest pressed to his; Harry’s hands sending tingles up and down Liam’s spine with each sweep; Harry’s arms enveloping him. His hands are fastened tight around the middle of Harry’s back. He wonders how long Harry will let this go on for, can’t will himself to break it first, and then startles when there’s the warm press of Harry’s mouth at his cheek in a kiss.

Liam steps backwards to get a look at Harry’s face, wanting to hold the memory of whatever expression will be etched there as he would a physical photograph. He sees it, Harry with his movie-star hair groomed back, his beach-tanned and handsome, smiling face, his pressed and buttoned collar, and Liam laughs for the first time in a while —long, pure delight splitting him open, from the pit of his belly up, and he’s consumed by it, holds Harry’s face with both hands to get a grip on it, kisses Harry back, one cheek then the next, grinning through it.

“It's good to see you,” says Liam, touching Harry's face with one hand, the lobe of his ear, looking at him. It’s as though Liam had been waiting for permission and now a dam has cracked, breaking loose. He can’t look enough. He wants to choose his next words carefully: _I missed you_ doesn't feel right.

“You too,” says Harry. He runs his hand through his hair, an old nervous gesture. “Wasn't sure you'd come.” He turns his head away from Liam but into his hand, squinting out into the distance, as if Harry could see through the red carpet and through the buildings and far away to the skyline, like the view Liam gets from his balcony.

Liam swallows against the wild urge to invite Harry to see it now, to get back into the car that’s stalled in the parking lot, an empty waiting weight, and put it into gear and just drive. “‘Course I'm here,” says Liam instead. “Wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.” He has to stifle a flinch for how untrue it is. He lets go of Harry’s face with a last, lingering touch.

Harry brightens up, anyway, looking back at Liam again, all dimples, his lips unable to close around his teeth from the force of his smile. “Alright,” says Harry, believing him.

The breezes trickles by, cooling the back of Liam’s neck, wafting a curl coming loose on Harry's forehead, and Liam waits, looking at Harry, Harry looking at him, Liam feeling time roll to a dead-stop same as it had before he stepped out of the car at the entrance, at the open mouth of the red carpet.

Then Harry says, “Shall we?” and he offers his arm.

Liam breathes out quickly, blowing out a candle. He can't refuse. He places his hand over Harry’s forearm, and says, “Please,” biting his lip to keep from saying anything else.

Harry's teeth flash in the charming smile he gives back. Then he leans in further and further, near enough to hear his breathing, near enough to kiss again, and Liam is caught, thoughts coming to a skittering halt, his hands going clammy over the smooth, soft arm of Harry’s jacket, his breath locking up again.

Harry tilts his head, angling, his face in sharp and perfect detail, but all he does is say quietly into Liam’s ear: “I can't tell you how good it is to see you.”

It leaves Liam’s mouth tingling anyway.

 

+

 

They move through the back of the theatre, weaving around its massive bulk in the relentless sun, and to the reception hall, entering through an unmarked side-door rather than the front by the carpet.

“How did you find me?” asks Liam as he steps through the door Harry’s politely holding open for him.

“You should know better than to hide from me, Liam,” says Harry, stepping through after him, crossing the threshold.

Liam huffs half a laugh, turning to look over his shoulder at Harry behind him, and Harry flashes him that smile he’d had on the carpet —crooked and wry, helplessly for the cameras but real all the same. And then Liam turns to look in front of himself again, and his own smile slides right off his face, swallowed up. The reception hall expands before him, an enormous cave with high, untouchable ceilings and dangling, pristine chandeliers glowing above.

For a long time, Liam had been in rooms like this, one after the next. But, now, he freezes, searching for someone he recognizes, something he recognizes with absolute familiarity and certainty; his eyes find nowhere to land, and the ornate, gold-and-red dressed hall blurs into the glittering, draping gowns, the silk suits mapped over the bodies filling the room, looking foreign and strange, out of a dream. It’s been a while.

Harry’s hand comes to rest at the small of Liam’s back, startling but familiar. Harry leans in over Liam’s shoulder, saying into his ear: “Don’t be shy. Come on.”

So Liam takes a step forward with Harry, and forces himself to take another, struggling to return the smile Harry’s offering him again.

Harry introduces Liam to his entire cast and crew, and nearly everyone they bump into, recognizing each person, getting their names right like he’s pulling them out of a hat. He keeps Liam close, his hand on Liam the whole time, leashing him —on his shoulder or his side or the small of his back, the most Harry has had his hands on him for months now, leaving an echo of heat in his wake each time —even while Harry hardly turns to look at him.

Ever the gentleman, Harry bridges the introductions, but Liam finds himself distracted —caught in the touch of Harry’s hands on him, feeling it like a brand through his clothes, right up against his bare skin, hot and unforgiving —missing the cue, coming in late, saying hurriedly, “Liam,” and then, as if to clarify, “Liam Payne,” his name odd and awkward in his mouth, ill-fitting as a suit he’s grown out of.

No one seems to notice, at least —especially not Harry, whose eyes are earnest, his voice casually proud, showing Liam off as though he’s a novelty; the truth is that everything feels like a novelty to Liam, and he overtalks, over-expresses wide-eyed interest and attention to Harry’s co-stars, his face heating up, hot and embarrassed, unable to keep his mouth shut as though he’s had his first wine cooler at his first underage party.

He pulls away discreetly when Harry gets trapped into industry shop-talk by a gray-haired, sharply-dressed casting director, and hunts for the nearest exit, preferably the side-door they entered through, his eyes darting from one large, lush corner of the reception hall to the next, each as immaculate and inescapable as the last. He’s about to make an excuse and take a break by the open bar, but Harry glances away from the man he’s speaking with and catches Liam’s eyeline, and the polite smile, the guarded way Harry had been holding his hands behind his back, suddenly shifts, coming alive, coming into motion.

Even over the din from a few steps away, Liam hears Harry say, “I'll have to beg your pardon,” excusing himself before Liam gets the chance.

“Hey,” says Harry once he reaches Liam’s side, looking into his face. “You alright?” He touches Liam’s shoulder.

“Yeah, this is brilliant,” says Liam, flashing Harry a smile that dissipates into thin air. “Could use a breather, though.” He draws in a heavy, rattling breath at just the thought, glancing around the room again.

“‘Course,” says Harry, his hand drops to the middle of Liam’s back. “I’ve got you. This way.”

“I don’t want to make you miss the start,” Liam starts to say, protesting, reluctantly taking steps further through the center of the room where Harry’s guiding him. He doesn't want to miss it, either.

“There’s time,” says Harry, distantly, busy slotting through the crowd, his hand on Liam’s wrist now, his fingers brushing Liam’s palm, tugging him past the overflowing, abundant catering table and the swamped bar to an open set of doors that don’t lead into the theatre room but lead instead to an interior hallway as lavish as any other part of the building —troublingly high ceilings, ornate wallpaper dressed in gold and red that belong next to the elaborately draped velvet, glowing inset lights that reveal the way down like a series of candles in the dark.

The hallway’s fairly empty, at least —only a scattered handful of people sprinkled up and down in small groups —and the sudden drop of noise and the dimmed lighting hits Liam square in the chest, swooshing the air out of him, forcing him to breathe in deep like he’s jumped into cold water.

No one pays mind to Harry or him as they wade in, slower now that they’re out of the madness, giving Liam time to run his hand over his hair and catch his breath until it settles evenly, normally, quietly.

Harry’s still holding onto Liam’s wrist, and Liam takes a quick couple of steps to catch up so that they’re side by side, but rather than letting go, Harry just slides his hand around Liam’s arm and to his back again.

“Did you look at a blueprint of the whole place or something, Styles?” says Liam. “Know where we’re going?”

“Trust me, Liam,” says Harry, darting a look at him, only half his face visible, his mouth slanting into a vague shape. “I wouldn’t lead you astray.”

“I do,” says Liam, swallowing thickly. “Trust you, I mean.”

He can see Harry’s answering smile in profile, and bumps Harry’s shoulder a little just to watch it blossom, his dimple appearing, sudden and deep. They turn a corner that opens into another hallway, identical to the last, no less striking.

Harry pauses, hums thoughtfully, and then says, “The men’s room’s this way. Don’t think we can get outside.”

“It’ll do,” says Liam. “Don’t worry.”

Half-way down the hallway, there’s a blank, elegant gold door. Harry gestures to it, making like he’s going to wait in the hall, already pulling his phone from his suit pocket and leaning up against the adjacent wall, clashing dizzily with the wallpaper.

Liam glances between Harry and the door, and then says, “Just be a minute,” hurrying inside, pushing the door open with his shoulder.

It’s empty inside. Liam splashes cold water on his face over the wide, deep-red sink basin and looks at himself in the mirror —his eyes dark and black, his face serious and vacant, his mouth pink from where he’s been biting at it. He shakes himself, and says aloud: “You’re being ridiculous, Payne. You were in the most famous boyband in the fucking world.”

He doesn’t think about the word “were” and dries his face and hands on the soft, offered towel. When he’s set to exit, his phone buzzes from his inside pocket, so he stills, reaches to fish it out, and awakens the home screen to find it’s a text from Harry —who’s standing just outside.

“Alright in there?” Harry’s texted. “Thank you for coming.”

“yeaaah,” Liam types back, biting back a bemused laugh. “u could have just come in ??”

He presses send, and the door swings open in the next moment, Harry appearing in the threshold, sheepish, shrugging.

“Thought you might want some space,” says Harry, coming into the room. The door swings shut behind him.

“Not from you,” says Liam, half-laughing, watching Harry cast a look about the room, taking in the shiny rose-gold faucet, the enormous, dark stall-doors that reach from ceiling to floor; the bathroom is as ornate as the hallway and the reception hall.

Then Harry looks at Liam, and away again, shrugging again, touching his hair like he had when he first found Liam. “I don’t know,” says Harry, staggering, like each word is a shot in the dark. “It’s been a while.”

“Not too long,” says Liam, beginning to frown, almost betrayed. “Harry, I —” and Liam isn’t sure what’s going to fly unhinged out of his mouth next: that he’s sorry for not calling more often; that he’s sorry he still looks at the pictures of Harry saved in his phone and replays the voicemail Harry left months ago and wonders sometimes late at night, stomach churning, sick with regret; that he’s sorry he’s leaving L.A. but he’s here now, isn’t he, doesn’t that count for something—

Harry interrupts him by laughing a little, and it catches Liam off-guard, breaking him free of his thoughts and the pain seeping into his chest, the pinch between his eyes, his hands curling up into fists.

“Long enough for you to cut all your hair off?” says Harry, teasing, shooting Liam a smile, as if the tension doesn’t touch him. “Come here, then,” says Harry, gesturing towards his body. “Let’s have a look.”

As Harry says it, though, he’s the first to move closer and Liam meets him halfway, ignoring the growing thump of his pulse, stretching out his hands by his sides to relax them, returning Harry’s smile, grateful for the opening.

When he’s within reach, he bows his head, obliging, and Harry murmurs quietly, “Been wanting to do this all night,” almost like he doesn’t mean for Liam to hear, though he must.

Liam sucks in a sharp breath at it, feeling Harry’s big hand finally touch him, heavy on his head, running smoothly over his hair. He hears Harry’s delighted little laugh.

“It’s nice,” comes Harry’s voice from above. “It’s really nice.” He rubs his hand roughly back and forth as if to feel the fuzz and gentle burn.  

“Thanks,” says Liam, clearing his throat. “Needed a change, I guess.” He tilts his head back up to see Harry’s face; Harry doesn’t let go, though, just slides his hand back to cup Liam’s head, holding him, looking at him.

“A change,” Harry repeats slowly, testing the words out. It’s quiet as his face grows slack, vacant, impossible to read, unbreaking as the undisturbed surface of a pond. “Tired of the same old?” he says finally. His eyes flutter like he’s resisting closing them, but not out of relaxation or peace —Liam can see from this close that Harry looks pained, the faintest suggestion of a crease between his eyebrows. “Tired of everything being planned, and pre-scheduled, and monitored,” Harry’s voice strains in the still room, hoarse. “Of having the same people always around. Having to be somewhere at a certain time. Having everyone on you. Tired of living under a magnifying glass.”

“Yeah,” says Liam, automatic, struck with the truth of it, unable to lie. “I’ve gotten tired of it. For now, at least.” He closes his eyes, not wanting to tell Harry that this —not being in the spotlight —isn’t necessarily any better, tired from the truth, heavy exhaustion sneaking into in his bones, gluing him to the floor, making his eyelids feel like lead; it’s the same exhaustion that has made it impossible to pack up his house for the past month. “Aren’t you?”

“Sometimes,” says Harry. “But I love it too much to give up.”

Liam opens his eyes in time to see Harry looming closer, his hold on the back of Liam’s head gentle but relentless, keeping him still as Harry’s long fingers smooth through the buzzed strands of hair there, his face coming nearer and nearer, in sharp and exact detail, angling, and then Harry’s kissing Liam, flush on his mouth.

Liam makes a strangled, choked noise, relieved and hurt, and surges into it, fisting his hand in Harry’s perfectly tailored suit jacket, bundling the soft fabric between his fingers, pulling.

Harry breathes in deep and then kisses Liam again, hard, aching.

Liam reaches for Harry’s face with his free hand, holds Harry’s jaw open, their kiss growing slick and wet, opening and opening until there’s the first touch of Harry’s tongue to his, shocking and electric, a livewire, Liam’s body zinging with it, a shudder running down his spine, and he moans, helpless.

Harry responds with his own groan, low and guttural. Liam feels it vibrate through his chest where they’re pressed together, and Liam chases it, kissing Harry until he makes that noise again, fucking his tongue into Harry’s mouth to hear it again, and Harry holds him through it, his arm wrapped around Liam’s lower back, his hand gripping the back of Liam’s head tight.

Liam’s mad with it, the slick, smooth slide of Harry’s mouth, the familiar taste of him, his body pressed to Liam’s again, though it isn’t enough, not nearly enough, and the dam is going to break this time, not just crack, but fall open, fall out, an enormous swirling rush of water rising and rising like a wave that needs to break; Liam can feel it, swelling in his chest, his eyes hot where they’re closed, prickling with unshed tears, his hands shaking where they touch Harry.

As if Harry can sense it —and maybe he can feel the wild, unsteady hammer of Liam’s heart beating away from him —he gentles the next kiss, consoling, soothing, slowing the pace, kissing Liam deeply but unhurried, and the one after that is savoring, just with his lips, running his thumb against Liam’s scalp slowly, appreciatively, his hand on Liam’s back petting loose circles.

Harry gives him another kiss and then breaks away. “Liam,” says Harry into the side of Liam’s face, breathless, flushed, so hot to the touch that his skin against Liam’s stings. “I’ve missed you.”

Liam swallows before he can manage saying anything, breathing in through his teeth, holding Harry so tightly that he imagines Harry’s bones creaking, tightly as if Harry’s rope on a lifeboat. “This isn’t like before. We aren’t children anymore,” says Liam, rushing out with it, his eyes still hot and stinging and watering, his cock hard and pressing at his zipper, insistent.

“I know,” says Harry, subdued. He pulls away, looking into Liam’s face. But then he shuts his eyes as if he doesn’t want to see, his mouth vexed, his eyebrows pinched; he looks heart-broken.

Liam relaxes his grip, releasing the side of Harry’s face. He breathes in, deep to his belly, out like blowing out a candle, resisting the urge to rise up and kiss Harry again, missing him already, missing him though he’s right there. “I’m not saying no, obviously,” says Liam, willing Harry to make any other expression.  

Harry’s eyes open, intent and serious, his mouth twisting. He reaches out to run his thumb down the side of Liam’s face. “You aren’t quite saying yes.”

Liam can no longer resist and kisses him, slow and tender, so that Liam doesn’t say anything else, so that he doesn’t say _I love you_ because that's not talking about everything they should be, either. “You have a premiere to get to, film star,” he says when they break, wishing his voice would stay steady instead of give-out in the middle like it does. He lets go of Harry’s suit jacket, his hand stiff from clenching. “You don’t need to be messing around with me right now.”

Harry looks at him, beautiful and young, not a hair seeming out of place; just as handsome with it mussed as he is with it freshly combed and groomed. “I’m here now,” says Harry. “This is where I want to be right now.”

“ _Is_ this what you want?” asks Liam, offering himself, gesturing at his own chest and into the damp, fizzling, empty space now between them, the space they could fit the past year into.

“Yes,” says Harry, immediate and sure, not breaking eye contact, refusing to break it, chasing Liam’s eyes with his own as they try to slide away.

The truth is, Harry looks as sure as he sounds. “You haven’t said,” says Harry. He touches the side of Liam's face again, so soft that it's a whisper, a ghost, though his voice is unmistakable: “Come on, Liam. Tell me what you want.”

The floor moves out from Liam the same as it had done when he first saw Harry, and he closes his eyes against it, swallowing hard, his head spinning, his legs trembling, his hands shaking. He wants to believe Harry. “You,” says Liam, looking at Harry, the dam breaking.

Harry takes Liam’s face between his hands and kisses him, deep and urgent. Liam rises into him, hands going to Harry’s waist, gripping him, opening right up, his heart thudding, his eyes screwed shut and finally leaking tears.


End file.
